Long Roads
by Hutchie
Summary: Sequel to Desperate Times.  Kid's hands are still hurt, and he's recovering too slowly to suit himself.  He's very distant from Heyes and depressed.  The two are separated...  A bit mushy in spots.


**LONG ROADS**

**sequel to "Desperate Times"**

by Allie

"It's not easy for me, either, Kid!" exclaimed Heyes, drawing back in exasperation.

Kid Curry glared at him, unrepentant. "I said I'm not hungry."

They sat at a small campsite that Heyes had set up, near a campfire that Heyes had built, cooked over, and would soon bank down so they could sleep.

And now he was trying to feed Kid the food he'd cooked. It wasn't terribly good food. It was, after all, Heyes' cooking. But Kid was hungry, of course he was. It had been a long day of riding, another painful day in the saddle.

But right now he'd rather cut his own throat than eat another bite fed to him by Hannibal Heyes.

"Kid Curry, I swear you're the stubbornest man alive! Now you need to eat, so open up that damned mouth of yours or I'll open it myself and shove it down your stubborn gullet!"

Kid glared at him. "No."

Heyes jerked forward with the hoecake when Kid opened his mouth to say that one word, but Kid was faster and clamped his mouth shut again. They glared at each other.

Kid felt a smile growing inside him, in spite of everything. Heyes looked so exasperated. For once, his silver tongue wasn't working—nor his bossy tone, nor his reasonable tone—and it was almost comical to see how frustrated that made him.

Kid ducked his head and tried to swallow his smile before Heyes could see it. It wouldn't help his temper any if he thought Kid was just trying to tease him. It wasn't that, really, it was—

He caught sight of his hands, useless and bandaged lumps in his lap, and all smiling died in him. He felt himself grow still inside, a hard, hopeless feeling stealing once again over him.

The doctor had said his hands would get better. Yeah. So why was it taking so long? It had been over a week now, and he still couldn't dress himself, feed himself, work the reins right—or even head to a bush to do his business without having to check with Heyes first to undo his trousers for him.

Felt like a damned three year old, and he'd thought if he had to stand it for another second, he'd scream.

But it was going to be a lot of seconds, wasn't it? An awful lot of seconds.

#

Heyes watched as Kid Curry looked down at his hands in his lap, and grew still. All of—well, most of—Heyes' frustration bled away, leaving him again with the raw feeling that this was his fault, his fault.

If Kid hadn't gone to town to try to trade his own freedom—even his own life—for Heyes' safety and medical treatment, why, none of this would have happened.

He wouldn't have been beaten half to death by an insane sheriff bent on revenge. He wouldn't have ruined hands right now.

Of course, Heyes would be dead.

It had, after all, been Kid's choice. But he hadn't known what he was choosing. He couldn't know what the sheriff would do. If he had, he'd probably have thought better of it. They'd both come out of that scrape worse for the wear. Heyes, of course, was alive—but that was the only good thing. They'd both been hurt pretty badly by the sheriff and his deputies and barely survived to flee another day.

Lom had come to their rescue in the nick of time and helped them out. He'd even given them some money and steered them towards a good doctor.

**That doctor had said Kid might be able to use his hands again someday, like normal. Might.**

'**Might'** was starting to seem like a pretty big word to Heyes lately. It hung in the air between them, with every scowl, every tight-mouthed, stubborn look of Kid's.

Lately he acted—well, he acted like he hated Heyes, hated him more the healthier Heyes got.

But at least up till now he'd let Heyes take care of him. He'd at least eat!

"C'mon, Kid," said Heyes again softly, moving closer to his friend. "Open up and have some hoecake. I know it isn't the best food you'll ever eat, but it'll keep you alive till the next town. Never thought I'd see the day you didn't want to eat."

Kid opened his mouth and took a bite. He chewed mechanically. He stared down at his hands in his lap. Crumbs fell on the bandages.

Heyes started to reach down to brush them off, but caught himself in time. Those hands still hurt Kid pretty badly; he didn't need jarred unnecessarily.

It was hard enough changing his bandages every day. Kid got white-faced and wouldn't make a sound, but he was obviously writhing in pain on the inside. Heyes wasn't as good as the doctor had been, or even Lom.

His best wasn't any good, if he could still hurt Kid this much…hurt him enough he couldn't stand the sight of Heyes, or even stand to eat anything….

Kid took another bite and chewed it, his eyes blank, worse than a stranger's, looking past Heyes like he wasn't seeing anything at all.

#

In the day, Heyes was so strong and capable, looking after Kid so much that it made Kid's teeth grit, made him want to get away by himself and not be a burden to anybody. Especially to Heyes, who had to put his cheerful face on and act like he didn't mind taking care of a full grown man as if he were a baby!

But at night… At night, Heyes was the helpless one. He hadn't been hurt any worse than Kid—at least not by the sheriff and his men. But that had been bad enough. Mixed as it had been with the gunshot wound that was infected, and the long fevered time of suffering, it seemed to have lodged in Heyes' brain.

And at night, he'd have nightmares. Bad ones. Ones that made Kid wince and try to wake him up. With his hands so bad, he couldn't even shake Heyes awake.

The first time, he just snapped "Heyes!" and startled, large brown eyes stared at him, Heyes' chest heaving.

"Sorry, Kid," he'd croaked, and tried to fall back to sleep, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering—even though it was a warm night.

The second time, Kid tried to wake him up more gently, reaching over and nudging him with one stocking foot. Heyes had yelled in his sleep and jerked away. Kid was forced to wake him up again by sharply calling his name. And Heyes was so shook up afterwards that he uncharacteristically didn't have anything to say.

There hadn't been any nightmares since, and Kid had been hoping they'd gone away for good. They made him feel so helpless, hurt for Heyes and angry. Not that he didn't have bad dreams, too—sometimes he seemed to live parts of that bad time over and over again—but he always woke on his own, sweated and restless, but not having awakened Heyes.

Tonight, he gritted his teeth together at the first sound of a whimper from his sleeping partner. He unconsciously tried to squeeze his hands into fists, but stopped the second the sharp pains bit into him, reminding him how useless his hands were—for everything, lately. Even to waken his partner.

"Heyes," he tried calling softly. "Heyes!" Maybe if he could wake him soon enough, Heyes wouldn't be embarrassed. He'd just think Kid needed something. Yeah. "Heyes…."

A sharp cry from the dark-haired lump lying not far from him convince Kid otherwise. Grimacing, he edged closer, careful not to lean on his hands. He didn't want to scare Heyes—and he'd probably end up getting punched in the face if he startled him from too close—but he wanted to wake him right, too. "Heyes, wake up," he said, frowning at the sleeping face of the ex-outlaw. "Heyes…!"

"Ah!" Heyes jerked awake with eyelids fluttering, his face strained and terrified. At first he moved away, scuttling backwards like a scorpion, but as soon as he saw Kid, he stopped moving. "Kid," he said, sounding breathless and faint. "What's—what ya need?"

"You to stop havin' nightmares," said Kid, his jaw set. "Aw, Heyes…"

"Keepin' you awake? Sorry." Heyes tried to sound light, but he sounded very tense instead.

"You ain't," said Kid. "Just…try to sleep, Heyes." He rolled over, searching for a comfortable spot on his bedroll, thinking he hadn't said the right thing. But he didn't have the right words inside him now. Sometimes he just didn't have any words inside him at all, just one loud scream that wanted to get out and couldn't.

#

"Kid." Heyes didn't look at him while he was coiling up the rope to put over their saddles. He'd cleaned up the camp site efficiently and quietly. That was rather unlike Heyes, who liked to talk a lot. He always had something going on, whether planning something or just verbalizing what he was thinking. Sometimes he wanted Kid to be quiet and let him plan, but most of the time, he would rather have a willing audience. Or sometimes an unwilling one.

"Kid," he said again, and his voice betrayed to Kid, if a hundred things already hadn't, that he was dreading telling Kid something, and didn't expect Kid to take it well. He looked up now, and his dark, expressive eyes showed worry. He cleared his throat and tried again, channeling some of his old, force-of-nature, Devil's-Hole-leader voice. Though he was still thin and recovering from wounds, wearing patched and holey clothes, and had circles under his eyes from where he hadn't slept well, Kid still saw the leader in him.

"We're taking you to see some nuns. Now don't argue, Kid. They can take care of you. I can't. I'm doing my best, but you need to be off the trail—stop eating trail dust long enough to heal. You know I'm right, Kid."

Heyes glared at him, though Kid hadn't opened his mouth or said one word yet. He supposed he did have his mutinous expression on, and that ought to tell Heyes enough. And well—he didn't want to go live with nuns. Probably hit his knuckles with their rulers. Just what he needed!

Sure, they'd met that one nice and interesting and rather understanding nun on their one trip, but—

Suspicion bloomed. "Heyes, are you taking me to Sister Julia?"

Heyes, looking a bit uncertain, nodded. "Yeah. She's—the convent's not far from here. We've been heading this way…"

"For a while now," accused Kid. "You knew. When were you gonna tell me?"

Heyes shrugged guiltily. "When we got nearer. I told you today, didn't I?"

Kid glared at him. "We're partners, Heyes. You don't decide things and then tell me later."

"Well I thought…"

"You thought I wouldn't agree, so you didn't tell me." If he could've, without hurting his hands, Kid would've crossed his arms and glared. As it was, he just glared. Heyes was treating him like a baby!

Heyes looked sheepish, but then he gave Kid a searching, hopeful smile. "At least you're talkin' to me, Kid." He smiled at Kid, an honest smile that kind of took the wind out of Kid's sails.

If only Heyes wasn't so eager to help him and fix everything for him. Made a man feel downright guilty for being so proddy.

But proddy was the best Kid could manage most days. Sometimes it was that or just curl up and die, give up. He still hurt awful bad, and had no guarantee he would ever be able to regain complete use of his hands.

It did something to a man, when he couldn't handle a gun, dress himself, or even feed himself properly. It sure did something to Kid Curry.

#

Heyes wished Kid could get that bleak look out of his eyes, but at least he went without arguing more. He seemed so far away, like he was still seeing the hurt he'd gone through, and couldn't get past it to live in the now. Well, he was hurt, and Heyes felt bad about it every day, about everything the both of them, but especially Kid, had gone through.

He was trying to do his best to take care of them both. He honestly hoped the nuns would be able to take care of Kid better than his fumbling efforts. If nothing more, it should help to be off the trail and have some time to rest. He knew it had to be hard on Kid, riding every day when he couldn't even use his hands to help him. Riding got to be sore, tiring work when you did it every day, even when you could use your hands to steady yourself and guide a horse.

He admitted to himself guiltily that he probably wouldn't have told Kid today either, if they weren't so close.

They reached the convent before noon, and before Heyes could talk Kid out of being sullen and upset. Then again, there was no guarantee he'd ever have managed that. Kid seemed beyond his words lately, and it was a heck of a scary thing. Kid had lost his best ability, and with it, Heyes' ability to relate to and communicate with Kid seemed to have gone downhill as well.

He understood if Kid blamed him. He didn't blame Kid for being upset with him. But it sure hurt to be shut out.Kid had never shut him out for this long before. Then again, they'd never been in a situation quite like this one before.

#

Kid stayed on his horse, watching with dull, angry eyes while his partner went up to the gate and talked to one of the sisters, his hat in his hands, a smile on his face, charming as usual even though you wouldn't think such things would work on a nun. You'd think they'd be all the more suspicious of a man like Heyes—ragged, dirty, with that hard to define but definite air of being not quite savory.

But she nodded and went away, and shortly, Sister Julia returned. She looked just the same, like a day hadn't passed. She smiled at Heyes, but barely said two words to him, her eyes going right to Kid. She nodded to Heyes, who followed her towards the horse, his hat still in his hands, talking.

Kid and the nun regarded one another. She gave him a brisk smile that lacked Heyes' guilt-ridden pity and anxiety to cheer Kid up, either. "Well," she said. "You ready to come down from there, Thaddeus?"

Kid found himself nodding, relaxing with the sight of her calm competence. He and Heyes had grown fond of the nun when they'd met her during their travels. They'd offered help to the stranded nun and her friend, and grown fond and protective of her. Now, it was their turn to come to her for help.

Between the two of them—but mostly Kid and the nun, because they both ignored Heyes, who was still chattering cheerful, nervous words in the background—they got Kid out of the saddle. He walked on his own into the building, and felt a surprising amount of relief when Heyes stayed behind.

Sister Julia got him situated in a small spare room. It had a lot of light from windows, and he could smell good green things growing outside, and the faintest odors of onions and some kind of meat frying for lunch. His mouth watered, and he hoped he'd be invited. There was a knock on the door.

He turned to see Heyes, and the shudders fell across his face again. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want Heyes cheerful voice. He didn't want to pretend everything was okay, or look at Heyes' pity anymore. He wanted Heyes to just…go away.

The thought startled him, and he tried to push it down. Heyes _was_ going away, and no doubt Kid would feel differently given time. He'd probably miss Heyes sooner than Heyes missed him. Heyes would probably be glad to have him out of his hair, no longer holding him back with his stubborn, proddy ways and his broken hands and useless body.

Kid tried to put his hands behind him, and face Heyes like an unbroken equal.

Heyes eyes travelled to Kid's sides, seeing the gesture. "You don't have to hide from me, Kid," he said with a painful smile. He replaced it with a nice, charming smile instead, but his eyes still looked sad. He put a hand on Kid's shoulders—a pally, friendly gesture, though Kid wondered if it was a bit forced. "You be good for the nuns, and eat lots of food, and I'll—come back to see you when I can. I've got to earn some money, but I left enough with the nuns to cover your care. Sister Julia said not to worry if we couldn't pay anything, but I know how you'd feel about accepting charity." He smiled painfully.

Kid nodded slowly. "Good," he said, his own voice dry and odd to his ears. He'd never expected to say goodbye to Heyes like this, and not even miss him. It hurt to have all these mixed up feelings: anger and frustration and wishing he didn't want Heyes to go, and wishing he could say all the things he felt, how confused and hurt he felt, and angry and frustrated with Heyes. He couldn't put any of it into words, and it didn't even make sense to him. So he just stood there dumbly and let the silence stretch, till Heyes' smile got painful again and he looked sorta—well he looked sorta emotional, and real sad. It wasn't like Heyes. If it was anybody else, Kid would've sworn his eyes were almost getting wet.

"I'll—I'll see you later, Kid," said Heyes, in a croaking voice, and turned and walked away rather blindly—almost walking into the door. He shoved his hat back on his head. His steps were quick taking him away from Kid, and his shoulders were hunched. He didn't look like anything so much as a hungry drifter. He didn't even stay for lunch.

And Kid just watched him go, wishing with all his heart that he could summon something more for Heyes, or for himself. But he just couldn't.

#

Molly, the girl who'd been on the run from the law and disguised herself as a nun before returning to the convent with a change of heart, was no longer here. Kid would've liked to see her and ask how life was treating her, but Sister Julia said she'd moved to a different convent, although she still wrote and was doing well.

Sister Julia sometimes talked to Kid, always calling him Thaddeus and treating him to a kind smile and her warm presence. She kept her questions to the minimum, though.

There was no doubt he and Heyes were both much lower than when she'd last seen them, but she seemed to have a rare tact and not ask too many questions. She also seemed to know what to do for his hands better than Heyes had.

Life with the nuns settled quickly into a calm, peaceful rhythm, the days slipping one into the next peacefully. He slept, a lot at first, less as time went on, but always more and more peacefully than he got on the trail, knowing somebody could ambush them any time, and he couldn't reach for his guns to protect them.

The room was comfortable and quiet, and his bed so soft and nice. He listened to birds sing outside, got to recognize the familiar songs. He ate everything the nuns gave him. Somehow, it wasn't as bad being fed by nuns. He didn't have to be fed by the same one every day, either.

They went about it in different ways, some with good humor, some prodding him or teasing him into eating more, but none of them with any pity. He was a duty and a chore but not an unwelcome one. The nuns seemed to accept their work as their life's purpose, along with their early prayers and their Spartan existence.

Kid found much comfort in the sameness. They didn't expect him to go to their mass, or their early prayers, or anything more than to bow his head when they prayed, to be polite. He could do that. He couldn't do much more—hadn't been able to since his mother, a devout Catholic, had died. Religion and Kid—well, he'd always figured it belonged to other people, who didn't have such disappointments in life, and hadn't made such bad decisions.

Kid could respect people who had religious beliefs, and he didn't want to crush anyone else's, same as Heyes. Leastwise, he figured that was another way they were the same; they never talked about it. They had, sometimes, talked about such things—deep things—when they were boys, exploring the world with their minds and curiosity. When they were on their own, they were too busy surviving, developing a cynic's view of necessity. 'Does it help us survive? If not, we've got no use for it.'

In hungry days, they'd aped religious sentiment if it helped them get a free meal. But Kid had felt guilty about it each time, and he thought Heyes did, too. Much better to just take something honestly than to pretend to be something you weren't for someone's good graces and good cooking.

Heyes said when you conned somebody you were paying them, because you were giving them a story they wanted to hear and making them feel like a good person. He said they shouldn't be so gullible if they didn't want to be taken advantage of. He never could quite say it while looking Kid straight in the eyes, though. Or, worse, he'd put on his innocent face and say it. Kid knew better than to believe that, and he hated to see Heyes trying to use it on him.

They hadn't conned anybody for a while, and they'd gotten along real well with all the religious people they'd met in the past few years. Much better than with blackguards like Harry Briscoe! That man had no morals of any sort. Better to have beliefs, even if they sometimes seemed to make life harder, than to believe only in getting all you could out of life. That was what they used to believe, but it had changed, somewhere on the way towards amnesty and today.

The nuns at least seemed to have found themselves a mix of the spiritual and practical. They worked hard, helped anyone who asked it, and lived peaceful lives. And they seemed… happy. The more he got to knew them, the more he liked them. They were undemanding about personal details, but welcomed him joining conversations whenever he wanted.

Only one nun ever tried to argue theology with him—a grizzled, combatative nun he couldn't help but like. He held his own with Sister Agnes, and no grudges, enjoying the spark in her that called for a fight and let her treat him as an equal with words.

But Sister Julia called a stop to it when she found out. "If he wants to talk about religion, that's fine. But don't you force any discussions, sister. This man is here as our guest."

She hadn't had such qualms about asking if he and Heyes went to church regularly, when they first met. But since then she'd developed an easy relationship with the men, accepting them as they were. And here on her home ground, she seemed especially loathe to make him feel pressured.

Kid actually hadn't been upset, but he also didn't feel like bringing up religion, so the sparring between him and Sister Agnes stopped. Sometimes he listened to the nuns discussing religious topics amongst themselves, but he never joined in.

He found himself thinking about Heyes a lot, lately. Every trail seemed to lead back to Heyes, one way or another. He wondered how Heyes was doing. What he was doing to earn some money. And when he'd be back to visit Kid.

As the weeks stretched into a month, Heyes didn't reappear. Finally Kid spoke with the sister about it. "Did Heyes say when he'd be coming back?"

"He mentioned a cattle roundup, and said it would be almost two months before he could return."

"I see," said Kid, feeling once again betrayed and bitterly hurt by Heyes' caution with him. Treating him with kid gloves. Hadn't even told him as much as he'd told the nuns….

#

His hands were healing. The nuns had herbs, lots of clean cloths, and an endless patience for washing and bandaging. He was part of their chores, and they tended him with good humor and kindness, but without Heyes' fumbling pity.

At first it was real embarrassing having a nun help him dress, but she handled it with practical hands and didn't appear at all shocked by the sight of him. He felt embarrassed about making a nun see a man's parts, but the nun gave him a good talking-to about having changed diapers since she was a little girl, not being all that ignorant of life before becoming a nun, and ended on the objection-silencing point that God had made all creatures, including man—and all his parts!

He got some good, long baths. He came to enjoy the gentle humor and quiet diligence of the nuns. And their cooking. They did some wonderful cooking.

They gave him warm water with salt and sometimes herbs in for soaking his hands. Sometimes it hurt, but it always seemed to make them feel better afterwards. He'd sit in the kitchen with his hands lying useless in warm water, turning pruney. He watched the sisters wash dishes and peel potatoes and talk.

The more his hands improved, the more he tried to do with them. He was obsessed with regaining the use of them. They moved crablike, slow and hurting like an old man with arthritis. He hadn't started foretelling the weather yet with his hands, but some days he felt like it wouldn't be long.

Still, he could do more with his hands now. He couldn't handle the buttons or catches on his clothing, but he could pick up a cup and drink from it if he used both hands. If he used one, he fumbled it. He couldn't handle a fork yet, until one of the larger, quietest sisters, watching him try, went away and came back with a fork wrapped round and round with a piece of rag, to make the handle soft and thick enough he could grasp it.

He got better at eating, and ate more when he didn't have to get help with every bite.

All the time now, he practiced moving his hands, opening and closing them, trying to regain more movement, get the stiffness out. They were healing. But they were old man's hands, not gunfighter's hands. They weren't even as good as most old men had.

Sister Julia cautioned him wryly about impatience, and said he needed to hold his horses.

"How will your friend take it if he hears you injured yourself again, trying too much too fast?" she asked when she took a hoe out of his hands.

"I thought I could help," said Kid, trying not to glare at her. Some days, it really stuck in his craw, letting women do everything for him, not even helping a little bit.

"Your friend paid for your keep. Now don't you worry about that. Besides, what kind of hosts would we be if we let you hurt yourself? There will be plenty of days to work, young man. Would you like to try reading again?"

He wouldn't. He fumbled the pages, was afraid he'd rip them, the delicate task as far beyond him as gun fighting.

They found something he could do, though. Sister Laura had him put his arms out for a rack to hold her yarn while she was making it into a ball. He felt longsuffering about it, but it was sorta nice to be useful.

#

Heyes curled on his side on the prairie, trying to get his head comfortable on his bedroll. He hadn't been sleeping too well lately, and you oughta sleep good on a cattle drive. Oughta be too tired not to. But still, the dreams came. He'd taken to sleeping near the outside of the camp, so he wouldn't wake anybody in case he started screaming again, as he'd done one night.

He didn't like to think about the dreams. They tormented him, with things past that had happened, and endless, inventive horrors his creative mind seemed to delight in torturing him with while he tried to sleep. Him and Kid—hung, shot, tortured, trapped alive in a burning barn. Almost worse were the troubling dreams when he couldn't find Kid: when he searched and searched, and couldn't find him.

"Kid!" he'd shout, standing in the middle of the prairie rising up around him like a giant, dust-filled bowl. "Kid!" And there was nothing—except sometimes, a boot hitting him because he'd said it out loud and woke somebody up.

Sometimes if one of the dreams caught him early enough, and bad enough, he'd sit up all night, shivering, his arms round himself, teeth chattering. It did get cold at night, though it could still be fiercesome hot during the day. But the days were getting shorter, and the nights colder. The moon seemed larger, and brighter lately. He stared up at it, and wondered how Kid was doing, and when he'd see him, and if Kid would ever forgive Heyes.

Heyes wasn't stupid enough to think there was anything in Kid's life more important than his hands. They were his livelihood, the thing that made him Kid Curry.

**Sure, he might've said once that it was worth the trade for Heyes' life, but that was before he had to live with the reality, day in and day out.**

Heyes could only hope those hands were healing under the kindly ministrations of the nuns. And that his anger was healing, too. Maybe, someday, he'd be able to look Heyes in the eyes without that anger and pain.

Besides the lack of enough sleep, Heyes couldn't seem to settle down in the cattle drive. He kept himself to himself, feeling jittery and suspicious of every tanned face, every unfamiliar man. He wasn't usually like that, and at first he couldn't think why. He'd been around strangers a long time. Was it because Kid wasn't here to back him up? But he'd been on his own before, too.

He realized when he almost flinched from a man handing him a rope.

He was scared. Just plum scared.

Heyes felt like a real fool, then. Just because the last strangers they'd had much to do with had tortured and nearly killed him and the Kid didn't mean they were all like that. But the scared, animal part of his brain didn't believe that, anymore than it could stop sending him tormenting dreams at night.

Sometimes, he was too weary to think, to hope, to plan. To do anything. He could barely keep his end of the cattle drive up, barely force himself to eat before falling into an exhausted sleep at the end of the day, knowing he'd be awake before he wanted, long before dawn….

But sometimes, there was something like a hope or a prayer in him. Maybe it was because he was thinking about the nuns and wondering how they were managing with Kid.

_Let him be okay…._

He didn't think he knew how to pray anymore, so maybe it was just a wish. Either way, it was all he seemed to have left in his heart anymore: a wearing longing that Kid would return to the man he was meant to be: strong, supremely fast, confident and peaceful.

#

One day Sister Julia caught him setting up targets on a back wall and taking potshots at them with his gun.

His shots went wide most of the time. His hand hurt every time he squeezed the trigger. When he looked down, he realized he was beginning to bleed. He decided to switch to his other hand. If he had to start out all over again, he might as well just learn to shoot with both hands this time.

"Thaddeus, what are you doing?" demanded Sister Julia, marching up with a shocked look in her eyes.

Uh-oh. Maybe it was time for the ruler!

He smiled at her. He felt better with a gun in his hand, even when it hurt. At least he was working at getting his aim back. Maybe he'd even be good enough to ride with Heyes again. Not that they wanted to rely on fast draws and gun skills. But a man could get to feeling awful naked when he couldn't defend himself—especially when there were two of you, and you were wanted.

"Thaddeus, I know you might have to use that gun when you're on your own, but I'll not have it in this sanctuary."

"I need to practice before I leave," said Kid.

"No, you don't. Not here." She pointed to the wall, where some of his scattered shots had dinged the adobe. "Your shots are going wild. You could hit someone. We're all too close for any gunfire here, especially wild shots like this."

"But I won't get better if I don't practice."

"You also won't scare off the natives who come to us for help. You also won't draw the law down wondering why there's gunfire at the convent."

Kid gulped.

"Give me that, please. You may have it back when you leave."

She pried the gun from his hands and walked away purposefully, holding it carefully at her side, away from her body as if it were poison.

#

The cattle drive ended, and Heyes was so glad to be back in a town. His first real bath in ages. He fell asleep in the water, and it turned cold around him. He dreamed of winter, and him and Kid stuck in that cabin, playing Red Dog, and Kid getting so ill.

Heyes awoke shivering, scrubbed himself off the rest of the way and climbed out achingly, like an old man, and dried off standing kind of hunched from fatigue.

He ate a big meal, and then went to find a poker game and increase his earnings. Getting paid had just reminded him how paltry a sum cattle wrangling could get you.

Heyes played well, despite his exhaustion. He played late into the night, winning enough to stay ahead, keeping a careful eye on his opponents, learning their tells, and watching carefully when new men entered the game and old men left, to be sure no one was cheating. It kept him up late, and he didn't have to face the nightmares.

He'd earned a sizeable stake by dawn, and headed back towards his hotel room content.

Till somebody knocked him over the head and stole all his money and left him like a dead man in the street.

#

Heyes woke up with the man who ran the hotel frowning sourly down at him. "Good thing you paid for the room in advance, mister. I don't do charity."

So Heyes got to stay in bed for the next three days, while the head pain and nausea shook him. He couldn't afford to go to the doctor, but he'd been knocked on the head before, and knew he most of all needed rest. By the end of the third day, he wasn't seeing double and the worst of the nausea had stopped.

It took awhile for the headaches to go away, though. And by that time, he was back on the trail, chasing cattle with the feeling that this was an inevitable circle he would never get out of. Perhaps this was to be his punishment: eating dust on endless trails, having nightmares, worrying about Kid.

It was time. He knew it was time to head back. Even without the money. He'd be ashamed of himself, but Kid—the old Kid—would rather see him than money any day. That old Kid would worry about him, too, if he wasn't back in the time he'd told the nuns.

But this was the new Kid, the one with busted hands and a busted, bitter feeling in the place of whatever trust he'd had for Heyes in the past. And Heyes couldn't go back to him empty handed because he'd been robbed. Heyes couldn't give Kid one more thing to be disappointed with him about.

So he kept on the trail, and kept eating dust, sleeping at the edge of the circle so he wouldn't wake anybody with his nightmares.

And he missed that old Kid awful bad.

#

Kid stepped out of the outhouse and stretched. He stretched his hands high over his head, like he could reach the sun. He waggled his fingers, and went to wash under the pump.

His hands felt good. Strong. Not real coordinated yet, and not as steady and firm as he'd like, but he could pump the handle for himself, and he could wash up real good with the soap. Even washed his hair a little and then pumped the handle quick so the water would run, and stuck his head under. He gasped and gulped, trying not to swallow the soapy water, and then did it again, till he was shivering, cold and clean. He washed himself to the waist, and returned to his room bare-chested, whistling.

A couple of nuns glanced at him and away quickly. He supposed he was a temptation of the flesh, even to nuns. He hadn't been used to thinking of himself much as a man lately—more like a lump of spineless glue—so the thought surprised him. It kinda felt good, though he made a note to be a little more circumspect.

He was whistling as he changed—by himself. He could manage the buttons now (just), and feed himself, take off his boots, even comb his hair.

It was time. It was time to go look for Heyes.

'Cuz he was late.

Sister Julia handed him back his gun and gave him a good long look in the eyes before he left. And then she smiled. She even shook his hand—it felt particularly good to be able to shake hands. He grinned back at her, hard. He already felt more alive than he'd ever expected to when he got here. He hoped his hands would continue to improve so he could really be Kid Curry again.

But ready or not, he had to go look for Heyes now. That was what partners did.

#

On the prairie, in the great open spaces, he practiced with his gun. He wasn't good enough to shoot rabbits. He wasn't good enough, in fact, to shoot and ride at all. Sometimes, standing still, aiming careful with both hands, he could hit a big boulder, a twisted tree, or some other easy target he'd have scoffed to aim at when he was ten years old.

It wasn't much. But it was a lot better than he could've done a month ago, and since no one could see, he was well content to practice by himself, striving for small improvements.

His hands were scarred, but at least they didn't hurt so much. At least he could tend his horse and himself, and ride and practice shooting. And at least he wouldn't have to be ashamed to stand up next to Heyes. If he ever found him.

It was beginning to look unlikely. He couldn't know which way Heyes had gone, and, when he finally trailed through a town where somebody believed they'd seen such a man matching Heyes' description, it had been so long ago the job he'd headed out for was certainly over.

Still, Kid tracked it down. From there, he talked to people till someone told him about someone who sounded like Heyes. He hadn't done too well on the trail, used to wake people up with his nightmares, seemed like he might be as like to fall off his horse some days.

They'd lost track of him after all the cowhands headed to town to blow off steam. So Kid headed to the town and asked around. First hotel he came to, the man remembered. Yep, that sounded just like that man that got robbed. Took it real bad on the head and lost all his money. Since his room was paid up for a few days, he'd stayed till then. Then he'd headed out.

The man thought he'd gone to work with Mr. Cellar boy's, down to the ranch. Needed a few cowhands, and they'd come through recruiting about the time Heyes had left. He didn't expect they needed anymore, though, the man said, taking a look at the gun tied down round Kid's leg.

#

"I SAID them cattle are disappearing somewhere! And you sure is acting suspicious, 'Smith.'" A spit of tobacco punctuated the heavy sarcasm. Mr. Cellar wasn't the brightest man, but once he got an idea in his head, he was hard to shake. And he was awful hard to talk round—silver tongue or no.

Heyes was just short of panicking. "Now, listen Mr. Cellar. I'm sure this is just a big misunderstanding. If we could sit down, talk this through…" He held his hands up, peaceable-like, trying to look calmer than he felt. It was happening again, strangers, ganging up on him. Wanting to kill him.

Mutterings increased behind him, and he heard the sharp yank of a rope, pulled down over a tree limb. Ready for a lynching.

#

Kid tried once again to shoot while he was riding. His horse, used to the noise, barely flicked its ears. But once again, his shot went wide. Kid frowned. He'd been expecting to improve exponentially on his journey, but so far, he hadn't gotten noticeably better.

Ahead, he heard shouting, and he picked up speed, worry twisting his guts when he thought of Heyes. Heyes seemed awful unlucky lately (that head injury, losing all his money). Who knew what trouble he'd be in now?

It turned out, a lot.

Kid rode into the clearing, and his heart just about stopped. There was Heyes, a look of such panic and fright in his eyes. His hands were tied, and he was stumbling back. Men were laughing and calling "Cattle rustler!"

A rope was round his neck, and they were pulling him towards the tree. The rope was already over a sturdy tree limb, and all they had to do was pull hard enough, and up he'd go, swinging, kicking, slowly strangling.

Kid Curry pulled his gun.

"Let that man go!" His voice rang out, furious and deadly.

"Oh yeah?" A big tobacco-chewing man turned belligerently. "Why?"

"'Cuz I'll kill every last one of you if you don't." Kid aimed his gun at the leader. "Think I can miss at this range? My name's Kid Curry, and that there is Hannibal Heyes."

Kid Curry stared at them, mean as rattlers, hands edging towards their guns. At least they'd dropped the rope. Slowly, the big man's piggy little eyes widened in his face. He gulped, swallowing down his tobacco juice instead of remembering to spit.

"And," continued Kid, "If we wanted to steal your puny cows, we'd have done it by now. You got yourselves the wrong man."

Guns cocked. Wary eyes went from Kid to Heyes, and back again. They couldn't know if he was telling the truth or not. And there were more of them than him. He couldn't prove his worth by firing off a quick shot like usual. Today, he just had his eyes and his voice to bluff with.

Heyes cleared his throat, walking further away from the tree, the rope dragging with him. "Ahem. I can see you're thinking about it. But I've seen Kid Curry shoot, and let me tell you, he can kill almost all of you before you fire off one shot. Do you want to die at Kid Curry's hands? It's no great distinction. He won't even remember you. And yes, maybe a couple of you will survive, only wounded. But do you want to be the ones to roll the dice and see if it's you? Or maybe you'll be crippled for life, or slowly bleed to death out here, shot in the gut. You don't mess with a mean-eyed Kid Curry. No sir." He walked further with each word. He looked up at Kid, with no trace of fear in his eyes. "Howdy, Partner."

Kid couldn't spare a glance at him, but he felt the glad gaze on him, burning warm as the sun. Sometimes, Heyes' dimples seemed to light up the world, and right now, despite everything, that smile was just for Kid.

"Drop them," said Kid to the men. "Or he gets it in the gut."

The fat man was sweating by this time—sweating hard. People always did believe Heyes. "Do it," he said, with a jerk of his chin, and let his own gun fall in the dust.

"Untie him," said Kid, jerking his head from the fat man to Heyes.

Cellar did. Somehow, he'd believed Kid's bluff and Heyes' words. Somehow, he'd believed. Now if they could just get out of here fast enough that nobody would notice how Kid's hand wasn't quite as steady as he'd have liked….

_Slit._ The ropes fell away, and Heyes yanked the noose from around his neck, taking a deep breath.

"Tie 'em up, Heyes," said Curry. Sweat rolled down inside his shirt, slicked his chest. He willed his gun hand not to shake.

Heyes did a fast job of it, using the lynching rope and a couple of others to lash the men to the trunk of the would-be lynching tree. He left the fat man untied, and Kid didn't question it.

"Let me get my horse and bedroll," said Heyes, firm steps taking him around a campfire, all the while Kid was silently screaming for him to hurry up. Then Heyes had his bedroll and saddlebags over his shoulder, the reins of his horse in his hand_—_and a gun in his other hand. A steady gun. "And that pay you owed me, Mr. Cellars. Didn't think you'd have to pay a dead man, did you?"

He waited while the man counted out bills with reluctant, tobacco-stained fingers. "One more. There." Heyes folded the money and stuck it in his pocket with a flourish. Then he tied Cellars up as well. "Well, boys…" He lifted his hat from the dust, fitted it onto his head, and swung into his saddle.

Two ex-outlaws rode away side by side.

#

They rode all night, knowing the men would get free from their bonds quick enough and set a posse on the trail of two wanted men with bounties on their heads.

They didn't have time to stop and chat, or eat, or anything. But Heyes kept looking across at him as they rode, and grinning.

"Heyes, you look awful," said Kid finally.

"You look great," said Heyes. "Could you really have shot 'em?"

"Not except by accident," admitted Kid. "But I'm getting better." _I hope._

"Sure you are." Heyes' voice held immense affection.

"You getting any sleep at all, Heyes?" asked Kid, having noticed the dark circles under his friend's eyes, and how thin Heyes was getting. He looked like he'd blow away like a bit of tumbleweed, though his eyes sure looked lively.

"Kid, if you ever came at a better time, or pulled a better bluff, I can't rightly think of it," said Heyes, choosing to ignore the question. They had to talk loud over the sound of their horses and the space between them.

"When I traded my hands for your life," said Kid, without thinking. Heyes' horse faltered and Kid looked over to see him looking pale as a ghost, stricken. "What's wrong?" he asked harshly, surprised by Heyes' sudden change of demeanor. Had he got hurt after all by those would-be lynchers?

"Kid, I, I'm _awful _sorry about your hands," said Heyes. "I wanted to tell you. I tried. I couldn't find the words. I'd give anything to undo it, and I'm real sorry you got hurt for me." Brown eyes cast him an anguished look.

"What are you talkin' about? I ain't sorry about that," shouted Kid back at him over the distance and the wind and the horses' pounding hooves. "Just sorry you hadda see me that way. I was lower than a snake's belly, felt real useless—to both of us. Couldn't watch your back. But I surely don't blame you. I surely don't."

It was a long speech for Kid, and he felt slightly out of breath. He cast Heyes another look, worried now that all this had been going on behind his friend's cheerful patter and encouragement. While Heyes was telling him to eat up and not worry, he'd been feeling guilty? Heyes could be a real mystery sometimes.

It wasn't the place to have this conversation, and yet riding at this speed, side by side, they were talking more than they had in months—real talk, too, not the fake stuff.

"I didn't know you felt that way, Kid. But you didn't need to…" Heyes' voice trailed away. He sounded kinda choked up.

They'd talked enough, Kid decided. "I'll race you to that rock up ahead," he suggested.

"Hah. You're on." Heyes urged his horse forward.

Kid grinned, and let him pull ahead before urging his own horse on.

They'd need to take a break soon, give the horses time to rest. But for now—they needed to get ahead. Always needed to get ahead of somebody. Always running. But at least now, they were running together.

#

They rode a long way before stopping for the night. They didn't light a fire. They didn't dare.

They ate their food cold watching each other, sliding back into the familiar patterns. To Kid's eyes, Heyes looked battered and thin. But his smile was as bright as ever, and he seemed to have a healthy appetite for cold biscuits and jerky from Kid's saddlebags.

"You're looking healthy, Kid," said Heyes at last, stretching out on his bedroll and putting his hands behind his head. His elbows jutted skyward. "Real healthy. Looks like your hands aren't hurting as much, either."

"They ain't," said Kid. He wondered what to say. Had Heyes really thought he was mad at him? But everything was at peace between them now, so why drag misunderstandings up? He was eager to forget the past few months and get back to the old patterns of life with Heyes—even the annoying ones, like when Heyes talked too much.

"Well, sleep good, Kid," said Heyes. He sounded happier than Kid had heard him in a while, even before they both got hurt so bad. He sounded—utterly content. And Heyes didn't seem that way very often. He was so often thinking or worrying about things.

Kid stretched out on his bedroll and stared up at the stars. They always looked so bright out here on the prairie, like they were close enough to touch. When he was little, he'd try to get Han to point out all the constellations to him. He was too small to say their names right, but he'd try to remember them, and even draw their shapes in the dirt with a stick to help him.

Because they'd both been so little, and said the names wrong, he'd learned them that way. They hadn't learned to pronounce everything right, because Heyes used to get most of his learning from books, with adults either not knowing the answers or not wanting to answer the talkative little boy's endless questions.

Han had been real smart for his age, but not very big. People tended to underestimate him. Jed, who was younger and real quiet, got ignored just as much. But Jed always listened, and he learned a lot from Han, who always seemed to need to turn around and try to teach somebody else what he'd just learned.

Sometimes that didn't work too well, though. Kid remembered all too well the frustrating feeling of Han trying to teach him to read—when Jed was four, and Han was six. Han, drawing the letters in the dirt, tried to make them make sense to Jed. But they didn't, and Jed got so frustrated he kicked at the dirt and tried to punch Han.

Kid had always had a good memory. It didn't seem to hold facts and figures the same way Heyes' did, but he remembered faces, he remembered places and directions, and how to do things. And he remembered everything that had happened since he was very small. Sometimes, that memory wasn't much of a blessing.

He remembered that day with the reading lesson, and how he'd hated feeling stupid. Kid knew now that he wasn't, that most people weren't as smart as Heyes, or as quick to learn to read. Jed hadn't been dumb, but he'd felt dumb that day in comparison to his older friend who expected the world from him, expected him to understand things he just couldn't.

Jed had almost started crying, and attacked Han. Han had caught his fists and stopped him, and got him to calm down by promising to take him fishing. Jed was too little to go fishing, everybody said so, so that cheered him up. They'd tried to catch things with a piece of string and a rusty nail. They hadn't caught anything but mud on their pants, and a spanking when they got home so dirty. But it had been awfully fun. Kid smiled a little at the bittersweet memory.

Heyes was sleeping now, but Kid stayed awake a little longer, staring at the constellations, remembering with a sliver of happiness those boyhood days. And Heyes was still here, at his side. Sometimes, Heyes was the one who needed looking after. And now that his hands were getting better, Kid would be able to do that again.

#

He found himself pulled from sleep long before morning. Heyes was having another nightmare. He was almost yelling by the time Kid woke up and rolled towards his friend.

"Heyes. Hey." He touched Heyes' shoulder, and his friend jumped, tensed and too skinny under Kid's hand. "It's all right, Heyes," said Kid, his voice gruff and unhappy. "Nobody's here but me."

Heyes collapsed back on his side, chest heaving. He looked like a dark lump, a hopeless dark lump.

Kid didn't like that, not one bit. "Heyes. Slide closer, huh? Lean against me, maybe you won't have no more nightmares."

"Aw, Kid, that hasn't worked since I was little, you know that." He sounded out of breath.

"You haven't tried it since then, neither. C'mon, Heyes. I ain't got all night, and some of us want to sleep, y'know."

Grumbling a little, Heyes moved closer, until he was edged up next to Kid, sort of leaning against Kid's side and chest. Kid draped an arm around him, and tried to adjust his blanket with his feet. Heyes sat up again and adjusted it for the both of them. Then he lay down again.

"Now lay still. Nothin' else needs fixed," said Kid.

Heyes didn't smell too good. They'd been on the trail too long, with not enough baths between them, but Kid was awfully glad to be able to guard Heyes during his sleep.

They'd slept like this every night, for the first few months after their parents died. Because if they didn't, Heyes woke up screaming and crying. It was odd, because Kid didn't get those same nightmares. If he needed to scream and cry, he did it during the day. At night, he collapsed and slept. He'd have slept forever if he could.

But Heyes, who'd pretended to be bright-eyed and hold out hope for their future during the day, and who tended Kid vigilantly—watchful, protective, always alert and never giving in to low feelings—Heyes was the one who suffered at night, waking up with the nightmares' return every night. When he curled up next to Kid, though, then he could sleep. It had made Kid feel better that he could help Heyes a little, too. Because for a while there, it seemed like Heyes did it all—taking care of the both of them, talking and working his way through life, taking all the burden off Kid's stooped and hopeless shoulders. Kid just couldn't care about anything. Could hardly bring himself to eat, some days. Heyes had even made him do that, scolding him and tempting him with illicitly acquired foods Kid used to love. Peaches, he remembered. Bits of fried meat. Anything sweet. Scraps of pie crust.

"Heyes. Remember peaches?"

"Hmm?" asked a distinctly sleepy-sounding Heyes. The humming tickled Kid's chest through his shirt where Heyes' face was slumped against him. Kid shifted slightly, trying not to smile.

"Peaches. How long has it been since we had peaches?"

"Don't rightly know, Kid." Heyes sounded sleepy. Good, he was gonna drop right off again. Kid smiled a little, glad to know he'd helped.

A yawn. "You want peaches, Kid? I'll get you some…."

Kid tucked his arm a little more firmly around Heyes. "Don't worry about it. I don't need anything, Heyes."

A faint snore met his words. It also tickled. Kid shifted a little, and eventually dropped off as well, memories of childhood drifting through his dreams, the ones both painful and sweet as peaches.

#

Heyes had never been so glad to see someone as he'd been to see Kid. Or to know that the constraint and hard feelings between them had been mostly misunderstandings. Every morning, he woke up and felt glad the moment he remembered Kid was back, and getting better. The suffocating feeling of the past months was finally leaving.

They travelled. And kept travelling, staying ahead of trouble, away from civilization and people as much as possible. Time passed. Kid could use his hands a little better each day.

He kept practicing his shooting. If he was too tired, his hands got clumsy and he dropped his gun. Then he'd get that stubborn, tight-mouthed look on his face, and try all the harder.

They rode a long way, and camped out in an abandoned miner's cabin near a tree-lined mountain fringed with frost. Heyes handled all the cooking, and looked after his friend. Except for when Kid looked after him.

His dreams were retreating, the way they eventually had after his parents died. He knew it was Kid again, keeping him safe somehow, the way no one else could. When he'd been little, just knowing his friend was there and that he wasn't alone had helped. Now that he was a man, he still trusted Kid with his life. Kid had saved it often enough—more than often enough, lately. Just knowing Kid was there, he knew in his very bones he was safe now.

It was a mite embarrassing, being that dependent on Kid. But then, they'd been dependent on each other for a long time. He figured, if you depended on each other just to survive, maybe it wasn't too bad to depend on Kid to chase the nightmares away, too.

Soon, he didn't even have to be close by Kid; just knowing he was there was enough. The dark places in Heyes' head retreated, the fevered imaginations of his tormenting dreams went back behind the closed door. And outside, the sun began to come out again.

Kid's smile. It was back. Some days only a little, other days as big and bright and real as if he'd never been hurt, as if he were as strong and confident as he'd ever been. Just him and Heyes, and they were invincible, could do anything in the world they set their mind to.

Well, they hadn't been invincible, not for a long time now. But it was starting to feel like it again. Heyes even began to make cocky plans for what they'd do. They'd fix this cabin up nice, live here through the winter. If anybody came back, they'd pay rent real proper. If nobody did, they'd count their improvements as all the rent they need pay. And come Spring, they'd go see Lom again. Kid's hands would be better by then, completely better, and maybe the amnesty would've come through while they were holed in up this here cabin.

When he mentioned Kid's hands, he had a bad moment. Kid's smile died and he looked uncertain. He looked down and stared at the scarred hands and moved them, opening and closing them slowly. He still couldn't move fast, and Heyes could tell, his hands ached some days.

But he could now use them just like anybody's hands, except a little slower, sometimes a little less dexterous. He could even hold a hand of cards, though he still had trouble shuffling and dealing, and sometimes the cards would get loose from him and go everywhere, sliding across the table. Heyes wanted to help him then, but Kid always insisted on picking up every last one by himself and starting over again. "I've got to learn, Heyes," he said with quiet determination in his eyes, and so Heyes let him.

Some days they talked a lot. Some days, Heyes realized that hardly a word had passed between them, yet they'd been in something like constant communication, a glance enough to ask a question, a returned glance enough to confirm or deny that yes, Kid would like squirrel for supper, and no, he couldn't stand another pot of Heyes' beans.

Heyes had found a stack of wrinkling papers and a pot of half-dry ink in the corner of the cabin, and set himself to writing things down. Plans—memories—even recipes. He once wrote out a story to please the Kid, a gunslinger tale where a man who looked suspiciously like Kid featured as the hero. Everybody spoke in malapropisms, and Kid got a charge out of that, laughing and laughing till he almost choked on his coffee, when Heyes handed it over diffidently for him to read.

"I like it when you write, Heyes," he said one day.

"Because I don't talk as much?" asked Heyes, smiling a little suspiciously.

"That too." Kid grinned. "Most of all, you don't seem so trapped." He frowned as if searching for the words, like mining for hard-to-find gold. "Or restless," he added.

Heyes blinked, and realized it was true. Writing that silly little story (and his plans and memories), was a help for being in this little cabin without recourse to poker games or busy days.

#

Singing loudly—and occasionally pausing to swear at the stove—Heyes finished burning the pancakes, and opened the door and waved away the smoke, coughing. Pancakes were just about the only thing he could make with the supplies they had left on hand.

He needed to make another trip to town, though he was wary about going. The town seemed safe enough—the sheriff mild-mannered and blessedly unfamiliar and incurious, the town calm and sleepy, and uninterested in scruffy men buying groceries. But you couldn't be too careful.

Heyes regarded the burnt pancakes with a frown. He wished he was better at cooking. It was hard with this stove, too. It was an ornery beast, uneven in temperature and too quick to burn things. Well, it was time to eat. They weren't so bad burnt; you could get used to them.

Heyes stuck his head out the door and called, "Kid! Grub's on."

"Grub is right," said Kid without rancor. He was concentrating on the wooden fence where he'd set up some empty, cracked glass bottles. He used both hands to hold his gun steady, aiming carefully.

Heyes leaned in the doorway and watched, a smile playing on his mouth. That was one thing you could say about Kid. He'd never give up.

The intense concentration he exhibited reminded Heyes of when the Kid had first learned to shoot. He'd barely been big enough to hold the gun, but that hadn't stood in the way of his steely determination.

And nothing did now, either.

His hands were healing slowly. The last doctor they'd seen had said so. He should regain almost normal use of them. Kid's eyes had hardened, at that "almost." There was no 'almost' in Kid's mind, Heyes knew.

And he wouldn't settle for just 'normal.' He practiced hard with both hands, increasing their strength and their dexterity. One day, Heyes had caught him carefully pulling the petals off a wild flower one by one. He glared at Heyes when he laughed, and announced with dignity that it was to help him do small tasks better. Heyes quit laughing after a time, and plopped down beside him and handed him more, teasing him gently all the while. Kid also soaked his hands every evening in warm water. Said it eased the aches, helped him limber up.

Now, Heyes watched as Kid exerted pressure—squeezed the trigger very, very carefully. The shot rang out, as the others had for the last half hour. But this time, glass shattered.

"Heyes!" Kid whirled to look at him. "I did it!" His blue eyes sparkled in the sun.

"I saw—a clean hit! You're doing so much better." Heyes sauntered over and stood beside him, smiled broadly. He hooked his fingers through his gun belt and watched proudly.

Kid turned and slowly aimed again, and squeezed the trigger. They both watched as a second bottle exploded.

"You're doing just great, Kid!"

Slowly, a smile stretched across Kid's mouth as bright and honest as the sun coming out. "You're right, I am."

They headed inside to eat burnt pancakes. Heyes dropped a hand to rest on Kid's shoulder. "Maybe you can take over the cooking soon, Kid!"

the end


End file.
